The Nut-Case
by Copgirl
Summary: This story is a birthday gift for my fantastic Beta Jack63kids. Events take place about two weeks after an attack at the ballet (read "The Fallen Swan" first, otherwise many references in this story make no sense). John and Mary as well as Mycroft are invited for dinner at the Russian embassy. When death occures, Sherlock is called to investigate. Beta-ed by Johnsarmylady.


"Oh, Katja, my Katja. You are the most beautiful woman in the whole of London. What do I say? The whole of England." Katharina Antonova, one of the embassy's secretaries, stretched her neck to give the young man better access to her earlobes, which he gently kissed and sucked.

Suddenly a door flew open.

"Andrej! Could you for once leave the female staff of this embassy alone and finish the job I gave you?" Dimitri Chizhov, the current Russian ambassador, was scolding.

The reprimanded man ducked his head and with an apologetic smile and a wink towards the woman he had kissed just moments ago he scurried away.

"I expected more gumption from you of all people, Mrs. Antonova. Andrej is like a butterfly. He keeps suckling the nectar of each flower he can find but never stays."

The woman shrugged. "Who tells you I would want him to stay?"

Dimitri Chizhov sighed heavily before leaving.

oOo

The incident was showing Mycroft Holmes quite clearly that being distracted hardly ever ended well. He just reached for one of the heavy volumes of the 11th edition of his Encyclopedia Britannica high up on the bookshelf when the sudden blaring of a horn outside made him turn for a second. When he turned back the heavy book was already in the grasp of gravity and a split second later one corner of the book hit him on the cheekbone just below his left eye.

The Government official treated the injury with some imaginative swearing, that would have impressed dockers and royalty alike before he quickly read the article he had been looking for, shrugged into his coat and hurried to the car that waited outside.

He gave the address at Kensington Palace Garden and was swept off to a reception at the Russian Embassy.

oOo

"Hold still, my Love. Otherwise I'm never going to finish tying your bow."

John Watson tried to stay still but felt already too restricted with the completely buttoned up shirt and the bow his wife was just tying.

"There." Mary kissed her husband. "You look very nice, Doctor Watson. Very nice indeed."

"Well, let's go then."

The couple stepped outside where a silver BMW was idling at the curb. One of Mary's meanwhile former colleagues had promised them a lift to the reception at the Russian Embassy. Taking a cab in London was anything but cheap these days.

oOo

Mary was certain her daughter would be destined to be a superstar in Stomp or world champion league football, anything really that involved kicking. She suspected it had something to do with the Russian food she had indulged in for the past hour. The sumptuous dinner had consisted of several courses of typical Russian delicacies, such as Vinegret and Solyanka, Beef Stroganov and pelmeni, bliny with caviar and sour cream and for dessert pastels as well as Tula gingerbread.

She was leaning back in her seat with a groan, persistently ignoring her husband's amused glances.

"There was no need for you to eat all the food the Ambassador's wife refused to eat." John indicated the almost skeletal body of Anastasia Chizhova who sat a few chairs from the couple. The woman had eaten only the Vinegret and a few bits of beef. Being a ballerina she had to watch her weight very carefully.

"She and Sherlock could have shared their menu and there'd still have been enough left over for tomorrow," Mary whispered.

John agreed. "True. Shame that Sherlock isn't here. I'm not surprised though. It would have been a miracle had he come to a reception Mycroft was invited to."

"True." Mary nodded.

They had received their invitation because of the great service they had done for helping the ballerina in a time of need, as the Ambassador had pointed out during his speech before dinner. The man had also raved about Sherlock's wit that had prevented a catastrophe from happening as well as bringing a bad person to justice two weeks earlier.

Finally the assembled diners rose and repaired to an adjacent room where tea and alcoholic beverages were being served.

There Dimitri Chizhov finally managed to corner Mycroft to jump the question on him that had occupied his mind since his talk with the politician's younger brother. Sherlock had been right, Chizhov decided. His older brother was a very intelligent man. One could argue about his looks, although Anastasia had whispered to her husband that she found both those intense blue eyes as well as the long, elegant limbs of the man quite attractive. And who was he to argue with his wife?

"Mr. Holmes, finally a quiet moment to talk." Dimitri Chizhov chose to ignore the numerous counsellors, attaché, secretaries and other employees of the embassy, not to mention the guests that filled the room. He had talked to Mycroft during a diplomatic meeting the other week but there had never been the chance to catch the man alone. Now was the time.

Anastasia Chizhova appeared at her husband's side, and took hold of his arm.

Alarms went off in Mycroft's head when he found her studying him from head to toe in a way that made his skin crawl.

"We talked to you brother Sherlock two weeks ago," Dimitri began.

The alarm in Mycroft's head immediately stepped up from a mere alarm to 'nuclear war is imminent'.

"You see, Mr. Holmes, we would very much like to have a child. But since I can't father one, we had hoped your brother could help us with this dilemma. But as it turns out, he suffers from the same defect as I do."

„Defect?"

Chizhov leaned closer. „It is such a shame that your handsome brother can't father our child for as he confided in us, he is sterile too."

The ambassador's wife produced a little sob at her husband's words while Mycroft choked on the sip of vodka he had just drunk.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yes, I understand your surprise," the ballerina cooed. "It is not the kind of information one would go public with but we both can assure our discretion." Her husband bobbed his head in agreement.

"Your brother also told us that, since he is unsuited for fathering a child, you would be able to provide the necessary … uhm ... ingredient." The couple giggled while Mycroft changed his colour with the speed of a chameleon that tried to blend in in a paint-shop. For once he found himself absolutely incapable of coming up with an appropriate reply. Well, any reply really.

"Would you mind, if I sat down for a minute?" he asked the Ambassador. "Maybe I drank the vodka a little too fast."

Mycroft fell into the next armchair but not before he snatched another well filled glass from a waiter's tray.

Downing the vodka he decided to check if the Ambassador really meant what Mycroft thought he had understood.

"Mr. Ambassador, just to be certain that I understood you correctly, you and your wife can't have children and you want me to father a child in your," he nodded towards the man, "place?"

"It is a bit of an embarrassment, yes. But we can imagine only the best for that task."

Mycroft wondered if he risked war between Russian and England with his declination. Now that he was thinking about it, it was about time to test the strength of the British army. Although, maybe he could say no and not have the Russian's at Downing Street's doorstep the following morning.

"Since you have been very open with me," he began, "let me be honest with you as well." Mycroft studied the tips of his shoes before he took a deep breath. "I would be more than happy to help you but I fear," he cleared his throat, "my boy-friend would object."

The Ambassador and his wife kept looking at Mycroft with pleasant smiles and polite interest. When they understood that this apparently had been the whole explanation they looked at each other for a moment and exchanged a few sentences in Russian.

"You have a boy-friend?" Anastasia Chizhova declared loud and clear after a minute or so.

Several heads turned in their direction, and Mycroft found himself being stared at by one of the ambassador's bodyguards.

'_Oh god_!'

Mycroft nodded.

"Then why did you not bring him, Mr. Holmes? The invitation stated clearly that a partner was more than welcome," the Ambassador said, his small dark eyes studying the politician suspiciously.

'_Why indeed._' Mycroft felt sweat trickle down his spine.

"Unfortunately he has to work."

'_Please, don't ask for details!_'

"Oh, what's his occupation?"

Mycroft gave a perfect impersonation of a fish that had been thrown onto the deadly environment called beach.

"He's a Detective Inspector," he blurted out. "Yes, Gregory Lestrade is his name and he is with Scotland Yard!" And before the Ambassador or his wife could ask if his boy-friend really would mind, Mycroft added, "He is a very jealous man and would never tolerate if I... ah … if I fathered your child. Any child really."

It was actually Anastasia Chizhova who noticed the bruise on Mycroft's cheekbone that very moment. Her eyes went wide as she pointed at the bruise. „Did he...?"

Remembering suddenly his earlier encounter with volume 7 of Encyclopedia Britannica, Mycroft tried to salvage the honour of Gregory Lestrade.

"Oh no."He shook his head. „No, that bruise has nothing to do with Gregory. I was clumsy and a book hit me in the face."

The moment those words had left his mouth he understood clearly that his denial had the absolute adverse effect. He grabbed another shot of vodka from the tablet of a passing waiter. Fortunately, the Russian's had great understanding for people who drank vodka. All Mycroft could do now was survive the rest of the evening without further diplomatic incident, perhaps try to reach a very unsuspecting DI to confess before he learned the news through other channels and get hold of some pain-killers for the inevitable headache. Oh yes, and most important, kill his brother in a very unpleasant way.

John and Mary had a much more charming conversation with a Russian physician who was working for Medicines Sans Frontieres One of the latest assignments of the man had been in Afghanistan. Juri Petrow was a surgeon and specialized in gunshot wounds. The conversation had Mary soon rolling her eyes as both Juri and her husband seemed to have a whale of a time to wallowing in gruesome wounds and the blood that was unavoidably spilled. After having listened for ten minutes, she excused herself to search for the bathroom.

Crossing the corridor Mary noticed a young man who was shamelessly pawing the breasts of a woman in a long red dress while kissing her passionately. Maybe a private room would be in order for those two.

Mary found the bathroom. She decided that the full length mirror that decorated one of the tastefully tiled walls would do well in her own bathroom, while she was washing her hands and checking her make-up. When she left the bathroom a few minutes later she found the man who had been so amorous before, lying flat on his back, the woman in the red dress half lying on top of him.

For a split second she wondered if it was passion that had gotten those two in that position but then she recognized that the man was shaking violently and gasping for breath because he was apparently suffering from a medical condition, not because arousal had floored him.

She hurried closer and saw that the eyes of the man literally bulged and he was desperately trying to breath. With a few steps Mary was at the door to the reception room.

"John!" she screamed and hurried back to the man on the floor.

As she had expected John as well as Juri and some other people came bursting through the door only seconds later. Both doctors reacted automatically when they saw the meanwhile motionless man on the floor.

John pulled the woman aside while Juri checked for vital signs. Both doctors were fussing over their patient for several minutes but it was quite clear that their efforts were to no avail. Even the defibrillator somebody brought, couldn't revive the man.

Eventually both doctors shook their head.

„Andrej, is he...?"The ambassador looked at them with wide and worried eyes.

„There's nothing we could do," Juri said and shook his head for emphasize.

„It looks like he suffered from an anaphylactic shock," John added.

„An anaphylactic shock?" The ambassador looked confused. „Andrej was highly allergic to nuts but there were none in any of our food tonight and he always checked carefully with the cook before he ate anything he didn't know the ingredients about.

„Then," John said, while pulling out his mobile and dialling Sherlock's number „we need to find out how some nuts were transferred to him and by whom because the way I see it, this man was murdered."

oOo

Sherlock peered through his microscope and hummed softly before he made a note in his book and absent-mindedly rubbed the bruise at his bum. He was currently studying the stains lipsticks left on different clothing. Hardly anybody acknowledged how dangerous scientific studies like these actually were.

The consulting detective had managed to get his hands on a sample-case with all the lipsticks produced by Dior. He had promised Molly to give them to her because he needed very little of each lipstick. When he had shown up with the samples this very day, he had decided to remove all the lipsticks from the case which were not Molly's colour. It left her eventually with one. He had acted in her best interest and still she had tossed her thankfully empty coffee-cup at him. Sherlock had managed to duck at the very last moment but Molly had quite literally kicked him out of her office.

He had to ask John what was wrong with her.

Sherlock's mobile rang and interrupted his line of thought. Murder? Well, that was ultimately better than lipsticks. He quickly tied the scarf around his slender neck, threw on his coat and hurried downstairs.

oOo

Sherlock arrived fairly quickly at the Russian embassy. A guard waved him inside but before he could make it past the corridor, he was grabbed by his scarf, dragged roughly into a niche and slammed face first against the wall.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Mycroft was hissing angrily into his sibling's ear.

"I have no idea what you are talking about, brother dear." Sherlock tried.

"Don't brother dear me. How could you suggest I would father the child of the ambassador and his wife?"

"And?" Sherlock squirmed in his brother's grip.

"And what?"

"Are you going to do it?"

"Uh!" Mycroft shook his head in exasperation and let go of Sherlock, who rubbed his hurting shoulder. "Most certainly not!"

Sherlock turned and couldn't help but grin. For some reason Mycroft found it difficult to suppress a smile of his own.

"What did you tell them?" Sherlock asked.

"I..."

"Come on." Sherlock was really curious how Mycroft had handled the situation.

"I told them I had a jealous boyfriend who wouldn't allow it."

The Consulting Detective barked with laughter. "Seriously? And who is...?" His voice trailed off. "Lestrade!"

Mycroft nodded. "I hope he never finds out about it."

"Who would tell him?" Sherlock shrugged innocently.

Mycroft stabbed his index finger at his brother's face. "You would."

"I won't, I promise. Now, if you are finished, mind if I have a look at the victim."

"Go ahead," Mycroft growled. Before Sherlock could leave he grabbed the sleeve of his coat. "If you do tell him, he'll find out about your latest ... uhm... purchase. A purchase I very much disapprove of."

Sherlock straightened his back. It was really unnerving that his brother knew he had acquired a very small wrap with cocaine; cocaine that was still in one of his Belstaff's pockets.

"I promise," Sherlock said before he flounced away with a huff.

oOo

"Ah, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Our knight in shining armour!" Dimitri Chizhov cried. The Ambassador's excitement made Sherlock preen and his brother, who had followed him to the corridor, where the dead body was still lying on the floor, roll his eyes in exasperation.

"Mr. Holmes, I'd very much like if you had a look before we call the police. A death in an embassy always involves tons of paperwork and is more than just a little inconvenient. And if murder is involved and no suspect can be delivered it makes everything even more complicated."

"Ambassador Chizhov, I shall present you with a suspect within the hour."

The statement earned Sherlock plenty of raised eyebrows but he ignored every single one of the sceptics and went to work.

He listened intently to John's report about the cause of death before examining the body himself. For all bystanders it was quite a spectacle to watch the Consulting Detective and the Doctor working together as a team and even Mycroft had to admit that it was fascinating. Every look, hum and nod had a meaning as the experienced pair almost danced through the first minutes of joint analyses.

Eventually Sherlock straightened and approached the woman the now dead Andrej had kissed before his untimely demise. He leaned forward and sniffed the woman's face.

"Hand me your lipstick," he demanded.

"What? Why?"

"Your lipstick!"

The woman dug through her handbag and handed it over. Sherlock inspected it thoroughly before he said, "That man," he pointed at the dead body, "was killed by your lipstick."

"No, I didn't do it," the woman cried, looking at the Ambassador for support.

"Mr. Holmes," Chizhov said, "Katharina Antonova is one of my most trusted staff members. I can't imagine she would kill Andrej."

"You did not listen," Sherlock replied. "I didn't say she did it, I said the lipstick was the killing factor."

"But..."

The detective sighed. It was so very exhausting to be confronted with the stupidity of the average population."

"The base compound of a lipstick is oil and fat. Peanut oil is commonly used in lipsticks but usually it is refined and in the process the allergy causing substances are removed. This lipstick," Sherlock held up said lipstick, "is not a regular brand but home-made. And whoever made it ensured that the peanut oil used was not refined."

"So by kissing her, Andrej absorbed enough of the oil's substance to cause the anaphylactic shock," John added.

Dimitri Chizhov shook his head. "I still don't understand.," he said. "Katharina always wears lipstick and I saw Katharina and Andrej kissing only this morning."

"I only got the lipstick this afternoon," Katharina Antonova said. "It was on my desk when I came back from a break; wrapped as a present. There was also a note from Andrej, saying he wanted me to wear the lipstick tonight."

"Show me the note!" Sherlock demanded.

After a quick search in her handbag, she gave Sherlock a folded piece of paper.

_'Wear this for me tonight. Love, Andrej'_

"Is this his handwriting?"

The Ambassador took the note from Sherlock and nodded. "Yes, without any doubt."

Sherlock hummed. "Clearly this murder was an act of jealousy," he stated.

The Ambassador sighed. "That doesn't really help. I caught Andrej every other week with a different member of this embassy."

"What do you mean, you caught them?" Sherlock asked, his head cocked to one side curiously.

"Kissing. I caught him kissing all those women." Chizhov waved his arm around, more or less including all women that were present."

John, who had been watching his friend carefully, saw the delight that came to Sherlock's eyes when he was given that clue. He stood up a bit straighter, readying himself because he knew the case was about to be solved.

"Did he sleep with you?" Sherlock asked Katharina Antonova whose face immediately flushed a bright scarlet.

"Mr. Holmes," the ambassador shouted indignantly, "that really goes too far!"

"It is important," Sherlock replied. "Answer my question, Mrs. Antonova. Did you sleep with him?"

"No." She shook her head.

Sherlock looked around and approached another woman with a few long strides. "You," he stabbed his index finger at her, "did he sleep with you?"

She too blushed and shook her head.

The Consulting Detective walked through the room, asking several of the women if Andrej had slept with them but each and every one of them answered in the negative.

Suddenly Sherlock stopped in front of the Ambassador's bodyguard. "But he slept with you!" he said.

Sherlock had barely finished the sentence when the man bolted towards the door. He didn't get far because John tackled him, and both men crashed into a tea trolley, sending expensive porcelain, tea and an assortment of cakes flying everywhere.

"Boris!" The Ambassador was clearly shocked when he looked at his employee, who was pinned to the ground by the short but strong Doctor.

"You may call the police now," Sherlock told Chizhov, who thereupon gave a few orders. Two guards came in and slapped handcuffs onto the bodyguard's wrists.

"But Boris, why?" With a mixture of disappointment and abhorrence Chizhov looked at the man, he had trusted with his life.

"I couldn't stand Andrej's behaviour any longer," was all he said, closing his eyes in defeat.

Before Sherlock could explain, the door opened and a guard came in with a man Chizhov didn't know.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," the grey-haired man introduced himself. "I was called to make an arrest."

For a moment Chizhov was impressed by the speed the man had responded to the call but he had the suspicion that maybe he had been lurking outside, waiting for Mycroft Holmes. A quick look towards the Government official revealed that he was indeed very nervous, trying to shoot inconspicuous glances at the Inspector. Well, none of his business really.

"Dimitri Chizhov, Ambassador of the Russian Federation," he introduced himself. "The man that needs to be arrested is an employee of this embassy. His name is Boris Turkow."

The Inspector nodded before he addressed the lanky detective, who stood next to John Watson, and was looking rather pleased with himself.

"Care to explain, Sherlock?"

The Consulting Detective gave his usual fast-paced explanation what had happened. Very quickly he reached the point where he explained why he had turned his focus on Turkow.

"Obviously Andrej was gay."

"Obviously," John added in a tone of voice that meant, he didn't understand.

"Obviously he was gay," Sherlock repeated, "because he had a ticket stub in his pocket that is from a gay bar in Soho. He kissed women and made sure he was caught doing it. It was a precaution because if he had been recognized as gay his career in diplomatic service of the Russian Federation would have been over."

Sherlock produced a deep sigh. "Undoubtedly you want me to explain now how I knew it was Boris Turkow."

Everybody but Mycroft nodded eagerly to hear the Consulting Detective's explanation.

"He was clearly interested in my brother who had declared he was gay just this evening."

Mycroft gave his sibling such a murderous glance that Sherlock shut his mouth with a click of his teeth, remembering just in time that his audience included the alleged partner of his brother.

Said alleged partner studied the elder Holmes with curiosity, wondering why on earth the man had chosen the Russian embassy of all places for his coming out.

"Turkow already confessed that it was more or less jealousy that had prompted the murder. He and the victim were surely in a long time relationship. Probably he had been presented with a piece of clothes in the past and had kept the note_._ He knew Andrej would go on kissing that woman again, so Turkow gave her the home-made lipstick and the note, knowing it would kill Andrej."

"Amazing!" John Watson beamed proudly at his friend who smiled at the doctor.

"You arrived really fast, Greg," John told the DI, once Chizhov had walked over to the guards who were still watching Boris Turkow.

"I was actually in the neighbourhood," Greg replied. "The drug squad is checking out a couple of houses next to the embassy. They needed a DI on-site and I volunteered."

John furrowed his brow. "Didn't you tell me last week you had a date tonight?"

Greg smiled brightly. "Yes, with Julia Fergusson, the Commissioner's sister. She's a doctor in the Royal London and had to fill in on short notice. We'll see each other the next weekend."

"Uh oh," Mary chimed in, "is it my imagination or is it really something serious?"

The Inspector blushed slightly and tugged at his ear. "Yes, it does look promising."

Remembering where he was, the DI straightened. "Anyway, I better find somebody to book in Turkow." Care to walk with me outside or do you have something to hide?" he asked Sherlock who stood with a funny expression on his face next to his brother.

"Nonsense, I have nothing to hide." Sherlock bid his good-bye and followed the DI, who led away Boris Turkow, outside.

oOo

The Consulting Detective passed calmly one of the sniffer dogs. The dog completely ignored him and Sherlock walked to the next corner to flag down a cab.

Greg had handed over Boris Turkow to a couple of his colleagues, when he noticed a commotion in front of the embassy. One of the dogs was barking like mad and shouts of an argument could be heard. He quickly walked over and found a highly offended Mycroft Holmes exchanging unpleasantries with two police officers.

"What's going on?" the Inspector asked, once he reached the small group.

"The dog signals, that the man is carrying drugs," one officer told him.

Greg understood immediately. Sherlock had been carrying drugs and had stashed them in his brother's clothes right before they had left.

"I'll take care of this man" he told the officers, who stepped back immediately. From the look on their faces they already had been threatened with deportation or worse and were grateful an officer with a higher rank risked his arse. Greg tried to inform Mycroft Holmes by mouthing, "I know, it was Sherlock!" that he would help him.

"Please, step over to the car, Sir!"

Mycroft did as he had been told, put his hands on the roof of the car and allowed the DI to search his coat. Greg found the small wrap with the cocaine in the right pocket and the sniffer dog barked excitedly.

"I'm going to book him in," Greg told his colleagues. "I'm sure he won't give me any trouble."

When he saw the sceptical faces he shot Mycroft an apologizing glance and pulled out the handcuffs.

"I'm sorry." Greg whispered, when he crowded the Government official against the car and slapped the handcuffs to his wrists. He tried to make it look like he was rough but was actually careful not to hurt the man. Once they sat in the car, Mycroft mad as hell in the back and Greg on the driver's seat, the DI started the motor. Before he drove off, he caught Mycroft's gaze in the rear-view mirror.

"I'm going to drive a few blocks before I can remove the handcuffs. If you like, I can drive you home then."

"That would be very much appreciated," Mycroft replied, wondering for the second time within a few hours why he kept trying to save his brother when it would be much more satisfying to have him killed.

oOo

Dimitri Chizhov stepped away from the window. He still could hardly believe what he had witnessed just moments ago. This Detective Inspector Lestrade had apparently been waiting for his partner, had actually slapped handcuffs onto his wrists and brutally shoved him into the back of the police car before driving away. No, Chizhov didn't approve of same-sex relationships but he felt it was his duty to protect Mycroft Holmes from his brutal partner. Being an ambassador, he knew a few people and one of them was Rufus Fergusson, Commissioner of New Scotland Yard.

His call was answered after the second ring.

"Rufus, this is Dimitri. I'm sorry to disturb you at this late hour but there is an officer I have to report."

Chizhov picked up a glass of wodka while he listened to his friend.

"The officer I want to report is Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Chizhov nodded upon the reply.

"You know him, good. Well, I know the private life of your officers is none of my business but it looks like DI Lestrade is violent against his partner, Mycroft Holmes."

* * *

><p>Yes, this end is a bit open but I'm certain you're going to have an idea or two of what's going to happen.<p> 


End file.
